


The Two of You

by TurquoiseCake



Series: The “Let’s Fuck Davesprite” Series [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Davesprite (Homestuck) Has A Cloaca, Davesprite (Homestuck) has legs, Fingering, Meta, Oral Sex, Other, Reader-Insert, self deprecation, self referencing, unimportant mental debate, you (mspa reader) have a crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21781054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurquoiseCake/pseuds/TurquoiseCake
Summary: Ah, the summary. You think this’ll actually tell you anything about the fanfic? You can read it, have an opinion about it or lack thereof, and then either choose to read the whole fanfic or keep scrolling based on that opinion.Who cares. You give Davesprite head and the two of you talk meta.
Relationships: Davesprite (Homestuck)/Reader
Series: The “Let’s Fuck Davesprite” Series [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761703
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	The Two of You

You settle on your knees between his legs, rest your head on his right thigh, and smile up at him. Davesprite, in turn, huffs and smiles back, looking away. He grips the edge of the couch lightly. 

“So awkward,” you tease, sliding one hand up his left leg. “You’re adorable.” 

“Thanks,” He looks back at you with half a smile and a diet blush with a side of quirked eyebrows. 

A moment ago, the two of you had just finished watching that movie you’d been wanting to show him forever, made out merrily for a generous amount of time, and then you’d gone and done the thing where you sort of just got on your knees out of the blue. By the look he’s giving you, you can tell he knows what you’re looking to get up to down there. You can also tell he’s nervous. So are you, but that’s ok. You kiss his knee and he swallows. 

“Shorts off?” You ask softly. 

“...yea.” he says, but doesn’t move. 

“...consent?” 

“You got it.” He gives you a short smile and hesitates with his hand on his waistband. 

You hum. “I have a suddenly better idea than the one I just had that interrupted our face battle session.” 

“And that is?”

“Bedroom relocation.” 

“You’re right, that is a suddenly better idea.” He stands, awkwardly trying to avoid getting his crotch too close to your face, and steps away to offer you a hand. 

You take it and he helps lift you to your feet, and you smoothly slide into his arms and try to snuggle into his neck but cause the both of you to stumble backwards off balance for a moment. He laughs like he’s short of breath. As the two of you journey to the bedroom holding hands, you look at his face, try to read him. 

He’s pretty, always has been, with tiny little feathers in his modest sideburns and a nice jaw. It’s difficult to gather anything from the way he’s looking at the floor, but you can tell he seems a bit tense. It might be a good idea to try and relax him before persuading him to really open up to you, both emotion-wise and leg-wise. 

Out of the blue, you say, “your legs are so wise, baby, they would grow beards if you didn’t watch them.” 

“Excuse me?” He turns to you and smiles with the most bemused expression. 

“You heard me.” 

“Alright, damn, my pants are already off.” 

You smile when he opens the door for you. 

The window of the bedroom is open, and the sky is black outside. Raindrops pour down the glass and glisten in the glow of headlights and street lamps. Davesprite sighs and sits on the bed as you shut the door, and you slowly walk over to quietly sit beside him. You put your hand in is. 

“What’s on your mind?” You ask softly. 

“It’s not real, you know that right?” He finally looks up at you with what you can now recognize as pity and sadness in his eyes. “This is a fantasy, you imagine me because I’m a comfort to you.” 

You pause, squeeze his hand, and look down. “I know.” 

“Why are you choosing to be here?” He asks, his voice so low and gentle. “Why me? There’s so many better characters, and people in real life who could love you. I’m… depressed, rude, existential and canonically dreadful to be in a relationship with as I will break up the relationship due to my own insecurities. Why me?” 

“I have my reasons, love.” You say, but you don’t look at him. “Don’t, don’t question this. Everyone has their own reason for being here.” 

“I just don’t understand.” He shifts to face you better. “I want to know why of all people you’d choose me as your go-to fantasy character.” 

“Alright. For me specifically? It’s because I also feel like the worst option. I love characters that I can relate to, the more like me you are the more safe I feel around you. I like to project my feelings of being a shitty clone of someone better onto you and, I don’t know. And the whole being fused with a bird you killed is… it’s poetic. For me, it’s weirdly poetic for something that happened in my own life. And some of the art for you is hot. And i am a hormonal person who needs to be emotionally connected to someone before I can feel sexy feelings for them.” 

“You don’t know me. I’m not real.” 

“I don’t care, I believe I know you.” 

“You know the version of me that you created for yourself in your head.” 

You stroke his hand with your thumb and he rests his head on your shoulder. “You comfort me. The thought of making you feel good and making you love yourself and be happy, makes me happy.” 

“Why can’t you love real people the same way you love me?” He nearly whispers. 

“Because…” you nuzzle your face into his hair. “You can’t hurt me.” 

“Because I’m imaginary.” 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, and clutch his hand closer to you. 

“I’ll say it’s alright, because I can’t hurt you, because you imagined me that way. The version of me you made in your head is not capable of hurting you. And because of that you feel safe loving me. But you can’t love me, because I’m not real. Why are you sorry?”

“I’ve taken free will from you, haven’t I?”

“You can’t take free will from something that doesn’t exist.” He scoots closer to press his forehead into your neck. 

“But you do exist, see? You exist as an idea in my head. Ideas are real in a very special way that only ideas can seem to manage. They are sort of half real, in the way that they can be passed between multiple people but they need vessels like stories to do so. You are real in the way that a fiction novel is a real book, but the stories themselves have not actually happened in reality. Does that make sense?”

“No,” he sighs, “not really.” 

“Have I taken free will from you?”

“I never had it in the first place, I belong to the narrative. You want to give me oral, because that’s a comforting and fun fantasy for you, but now you feel bad about it because of this conversation we’ve had.”

“I don’t want to think about it.” You pull away and get up to walk to the other side of the room where you can begin putting away clutter to give yourself something to do. 

“I know.” He gets up and follows you, and hugs you from behind. “Do you still want to go through with it?” 

You turn to try and face him. “I do, but, man, do you?”

“Yea.” He kisses your neck. 

“How do I know you’d really want to, like, we just talked about how you don’t really have free will here, you belong to the narrative, all that, but I don’t want to do these sorts of things unless I have genuine consent. I,” 

“Don’t worry about it.” He hugs you tighter. “The ‘real’ Davesprite isn’t even actually real, it’s not even that deep. Look, even if it’s planned in the narratives eyes that I want this, who cares. If it helps ease your guilt complex, you’ll be the one giving me head, so. It’s a win for me. Ok?”

“I wish we could escape the narrative,” you mutter as you turn to hug him back, and slowly waltz back to the bed. “And I wish I could know you were consenting for real.”

“Yea, but no matter what we do, as long as it comes from your imagination, it can’t escape the narrative. And what does it mean to consent for real? I’m not real. None of this is real.”

You sigh as he sits back down on the bed and you lower back to your knees. “Should I feel bad for fantasizing this? Does it make me a loser to get off to writing self inserts with fictional characters?”

“Yes.” He says, and strokes your hair. “You’re a complete loser and a creep, and also probably a virgin.”

You chuckle and rest your forehead against his thigh. “Thanks, love you too.”

“Like, what do you want me to say? It would be near impossible for you to believe me if I told you that no, reading and writing these sorts of fanfics is normal for hormonal teens and it’s not that problematic to fantasize about fictional characters, but what else can I tell you? My best option is sarcasm to try and lighten you up.” He looks at you quizzically and rubs his neck. “And you know, everything I say comes from you. This is your imagination, your fantasy.” 

“I want to go back to pretending we aren’t aware that this isn’t real.” You sit back and slide your hands up both the insides of his thighs and encourage his legs to spread. 

“Well why don’t you?”

You stay quiet. 

“Even if we did, it would still bother you.”

“I wish I didn’t care.” You slide his shirt up to kiss his stomach and he tenses. 

“Ah, you know, there is a way to make the consent seem more real.” He bites his lip once he finishes talking and watches you slide your fingers under his waistband. 

“What’s that?” You slowly begin to unbutton his shorts. 

“You already know. You’ve done it before.” He lifts his hips for you so you can tug his clothes off. 

“Roleplay.” You whisper, and toss his cutoffs and briefs over your shoulder. 

“Yea, having someone else play as me is fun because then I’ll do things you don’t expect, and the consent feels more real. But…”

“But I got hurt doing that. It turned out my roleplay partner was uncomfortable with it the whole time and lied to me about it for weeks.” You slide your arms around his lower abdomen to hug him and squish your face into his stomach. 

He rubs your shoulders. “Sometimes that happens. People lie to please other people. You can’t blame yourself for it, you know you would’ve stopped if they’d told you. And you did, you stopped roleplaying that with them the minute they let it slip that they’d been uncomfortable the whole time.” 

“This isn’t about the readers anymore. This is getting too personal and they probably can’t relate.” You kiss down his cute little happy trail of tiny feathers and feel his muscles twitch. 

“Yea, I think they came for porn, not a wild crisis.” Davesprite shuts his eyes and shivers when you hook his legs over your shoulders and brush your nose over his cooch, just breathing on it. “There’s bigger things to be having excruciating mental debates over.” 

“Yea,” you smile, “like how bomb this bird pussy is.”

“No I meant like politics or someth-ohfuck” he squeezes his eyes shut when you finally press a big kiss to his weird hybrid genital and get deep with it. 

“Mhm,” you say into his cooch, very thoughtfully. 

“ngh, hey so before I start on politics, you know roleplay?” He swallows hard and hooks his ankles together behind your back. “Uhh, h, mmh… you know someone putting on a, uh, like, virtual mask of me and pretending to be me… I was saying something. I had a point. I’ve lost it. Oh shit ok yes there again- hhffuuh mm” He trills softly as you slide your tongue against this one special spot he seems to like most. 

You slide your hands down his sides and pull his hips in closer, and he arches his back and gasps softly. His toes curl, his hands grip the edge of the bed. When you pull back and lick the outside firmly, he shudders. You pull back to talk softly. “Take your shirt off.” 

He huffs, nods and does a weird maneuver to tug his shirt off over his wings, and once it’s finally off he lets it drop to the floor beside you. Content, you go back to kissing between his legs. It’s delightful the way he seizes up and gasps, then relaxes and coos. He sounds dazed when he talks again, words slurring a bit. “What, what were we talking about?”

“Nothing important.” You mutter and slide a finger into him to curl against his sweet spot. 

He squirms a little and shivers, then laughs somewhat awkwardly. “Hey, I’m cold.”

“You won’t be for long~” you smirk up at him and waggle your eyebrows. 

“Jesus, stop. Can I put a blanket over my shoulders or something?”

“Yea, hang on.” You pull away and stand to guide him onto his back on the bed, and lay his head down on the pillow. The blanket underneath him you take and wrap over his shoulders, brush his bangs away from his face with one hand and tenderly kiss his forehead. 

His hands tangle into your hair to pull you down and kiss you, stroking your cheeks with his thumbs. When you part, you whisper, “I like taking care of you. You’re so sweet.” 

“I know,” he whispers back softly, lets you rest your forehead against his. “And you like me to like you to like to take care of me. It’s how your fantasies usually go.”

“It’s difficult to get off when you keep reminding me I’m only fantasizing. Should I feel bad about it and quit or not?” You move to kiss his cheek and trail down his jaw to his neck. 

“We’re already 2200 words in, might as well keep going.” 

You sigh and bite the junction between his neck and shoulder and he arches his back and holds you tighter. 

He breathes a bit heavily as you slide your hand down to rub him between his legs, but he still manages to talk. “Do you think the readers would manage to enjoy reading this despite you peppering in all your weird insecurities?” 

“Peppering?” You scoff playfully against his neck. “I’ve been dumping this shit by the bucketful. And you say ‘readers’ as if any more than one person will be curious enough to read my self indulgent drivel.” 

“You’d be surprised,” he presses his lips to your head and kisses through your hair. “You’ve been surprised before, even by small numbers.” 

“I suppose you’re right. But I could also do better to write things that will please people more. Things that are less personal for my own enjoyment and more for the enjoyment of others.” You slide two fingers into him and stroke him firmly but slowly. 

He moans softly, wraps his arms tightly around you. “The only problem you’d have with that, is that, uhh, hhnnh, is that you seem to write better when you write from the heart, and if that means writing weird existential porn, so be it? Damn, I donno, should we cut the talk and just fuck now or?”

“I’d like to go back to eating you out.” 

“That works for me.” 

So you do, you slide down and hook his legs back over your shoulders and go down, sliding your fingers back in and slipping your tongue between them. He bites his lip and arches his back, turning his face to the side. His hands go to clutch the pillow on either side of his head, and he gasps softly. Hushed, through restrained noises, someone says, “do you think this is clever?” 

You ignore it and crook your fingers. 

“You think you’re not the thousandth person to have these thoughts? And just by writing them down it makes your work special?” They say. 

For a second you open your eyes to glare at the person sitting on the bed beside you, who is also you. They look just like you, sound like you, and you hate them. 

“You know that all this bullshit just makes it harder to read. This isn’t an enjoyable fic.” 

“...babe?” Davesprite lifts onto his elbows to look at you, because you’ve stopped. 

You turn to yourself and tell them, “I’m fucking busy.” 

“Are you?” They let their head fall to the side. “Busy being a lonely, miserable-“

“I’m BUSY.” You turn and go back to going down on Davesprite. 

“This isn’t fun anymore.” They scoot closer to you and lean down to see what you’re doing. “It’s not fun because I’m here, and now you just feel bad. Why not just stop? Go do something else. Forget about it.” 

“Oh my fucking god.” Davesprite sits up completely and grabs the second you by the hair and pulls them down to make out with them. “Stop being mean.” He mutters into their mouth. 

“Yea fucko,” you sit up a bit to grin at them. “Stop being mean.” 

“How mature,” they say while Davesprite exasperatedly bites at their lips. 

“That goes for both of you.” He gets serious about sticking his tongue as far as he can down second you’s throat, while blindly reaching for you with his free hand. 

You take the hint and take his hand gently in yours, and move to sit behind him, all three of you now sitting upright. Hugging him from behind, you kiss his neck and slide a finger back into him. Your other hand drags up his chest to toy with his right nipple, and he arches his back and hums into second you’s mouth. 

“Actually,” you realize, and mutter into his ear, “there is a way to escape the narrative.” 

“And what’s that?” He whispers. 

You look at him, and say, “To stop writing it.” 


End file.
